


Shaky Hands and Missing Feet

by atsuyuri_sama



Series: Completed, Stand-Alone Tumblr Fics [12]
Category: Cyborg 009
Genre: Blink And You Miss It Slash, Canon-Typical Body Modifications, Graphic descriptions of injury, M/M, Mild 42, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3828463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atsuyuri_sama/pseuds/atsuyuri_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick skirmish separates 004 and 002 from the team. Serious injuries are involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shaky Hands and Missing Feet

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by art on tumblr drawn by user cyborg000. Mostly just a drabble for me to flesh out (lol) some headcanon for a solution to Jet’s rather unique proclivity towards losing his legs during battle, and Albert’s experience as mostly-mechanical.
> 
> See this post: http://cyborg000.tumblr.com/post/101076614285/suddenly-felt-like-42-wh

Albert used to have nerve endings.

He used to be able to handle things with light-as-a-feather fingers or a punch solid enough to snap bone, and know _just_ how much force he needed to use to accomplish his goals. He used to be able to write, because his fine motor skills – every minute twitch – were controlled. He used to be able to shrug into his shoes without really involving his hands, because he could flex his foot and wiggle his toes accordingly. He used to be able to know whether something was hot or cold, soft or rough, squishy or solid, just by touch. He used to be able to play the piano, because every motion was clear. He used to flinch when he fell in just the wrong way, because fragile skin was scrapped or bruised. He used to be able to do up his own buttons, because the slick, tiny discs were distinguishable even with his callouses.

Then Black Ghost found him.

He lost 87.3 percent of his body when they tried to piece him back together. He was given metal and oil and hinges, in place of flesh and blood and nerves. The bulky, clunky pieces that he was supposed to identify as his body were… well, large and clumsy. He was meant to be a weapon, not a person, so he was built for combat. Small, delicate movements were lost to him. All sense of touch – save small pressure sensors here and there, so he could move around – was lost to him. Much of his range of motion was lost to him, confined to the measurements of an unwieldy frame. The only time an accident disturbed him was when it wrenched a joint out of place, or pulled wires loose… and it was just as likely that he noticed the change as it happened (because it immobilized him) or too late (as his systems slowly shut down).

Yet again change came when he was put into hibernation.

He woke to a new body, and even less of his human self – he was down to 8.1 percent original, now – thanks to the modifications. Science had indeed caught up with the 00 Project while the four of them had slept. Advanced pressure and temperature sensors were evenly distributed into his systems. Each of his limbs had increased mobility and range. They had even returned his fine motor functions to him, apparently deciding that – even if he was a weapon – it would do if he could handle delicate operations _as well as_ being a blunt instrument. It still didn’t hurt when he fell, but at least he had automated diagnostics that could inform him immediately when something happened and what it was.

Albert had taken little time in his captivity to mourn the loss of his physical capabilities. All of his focus was either on surviving that hell-hole, or on mourning the loss of his beloved Hilda. When they’d escaped, he’d catalogued and analyze the newest changes. But he hadn’t paid it much mind; by that point, he was too used to people taking charge of what happened to his body without asking for _his_ input.

At this very moment, however, Albert found himself increasingly frustrated and grateful in turns, for the way his ‘new’ body responded to his nervous system’s commands.

On the one hand, it meant he could actually tend to most of Jet’s wounds without relying on the unconscious man’s nimble fingers. On the other, it meant that his hands once again shook when adrenaline and anxiety poured into him… And their current situation – alone, injured, without any idea when (or if) help was coming, and likely surrounded – was a valid reason for both of those things.

Fumbling, Albert loosened Jet’s belt, tugged the right side of his tunic away, and exposed the pale expanse of Jet’s hip, dealing with the most pressing injury. The small button there, in the shadow of his jutting hipbone and flush with his skin, was what he was after; it was hard to see on days when he _wasn’t_ having trouble seeing, and he wouldn’t have been able to find it had he not known Jet’s body so well. He laid his thumb over it, and pressed down until a tiny, pneumatic hiss-and-click sounded. The button became much more noticeable as it remained in a depressed state, a deliberate hollow in Jet’s skin, but in spite of the odd look of it Albert relaxed.

A squinty glance downward confirmed that, even though the gaping wound was still crusted with all manner of detritus and fluids, the stump of Jet’s right leg had stopped leaking fluids.

The switch had been a modification that Professor Gilmore had suggested after it became clear that the airborne cyborg was prone to losing one or both of his legs in many encounters with Black Ghost. It would, he explained, reroute his circulatory systems from mid-thigh, so that fluid loss wouldn’t kill Jet. The only thing that could re-route the systems back was the Professor, who would only do so after reattaching a new leg. It was one less thing they’d have to worry about.

That was also the first time any of them had been majorly modified (without extenuating circumstances) since escape, and the first time since the start of the Project that any of them had been asked for permission. Back then, Albert had been furious that the mostly-human Jet had allowed someone at his body _willingly,_ after all this. Now, Albert was dizzyingly glad that the redhead had paid his quiet tantrum no mind.

Both he and Jet were battered, tattered, and (the equivalent of, in some places) bruised. They were both covered in a morbid combination of blood, mud, oil, nutrient fluid, and gun powder residue. He had taken them to refuge behind a building, just in front of a copse of trees, and random fire still sprayed in the dirt around them every now and again.

They group had been fighting the latest battalion of mindless Soldiers in some defenseless, tiny village in South America, when the Soldiers pulled out a sonic cannon. It played havoc with all of them, allowing the Soldiers to easily sneak through their defenses and separate them. Albert was pretty sure that everyone else was aware that they were being played, as well, but there was no way of knowing how anyone else was handling this. If they were in as dire straits as Jet and Albert, they were _all_ going to be in deeper trouble, soon. He hoped they’d at least given the humans time to escape.

A vicious knock to the head had rendered Jet unconscious nearly an hour ago, and similar blow had jarred the inside of Albert’s head enough to disable his internal radio, and his right eye; squinting, he could just barely decipher shapes and shadows. The redhead’s normally pale face was horribly pallid, and his breath rattled warningly, slowly, and far too shallowly in his lungs. Blood, rare and precious, stained a ragged scrape on his cheek and soaked into a worryingly large patch of his scarf. Albert had run out of rockets 45 minutes ago, and nearly 15 minutes ago had seen his gun hand painfully jammed – still hand-worthy, but definitely not weapon-ready. Most of his own body was dinged up, and giving him trouble, but in the face of Jet’s issues, Albert had no trouble blithely ignoring his internal warning alarms.

He was rapidly running out of options, and Jet was rapidly running out of time.

(If he had to watch another lover die in his arms, he didn’t know what he’d do. It wouldn’t be pretty, though.)

A low-pitched whistle snapped his attention around, heart in his throat; all the birds had long-since flown away. He glared darkly at the unassuming woodpecker, searching for any sign that it wasn’t what it appeared to be, tensing. He might be basically unarmed, mostly helpless, but God help him: there was no _way_ he was dying on his knees if this was an attack robot!

Instead, it blinked rapidly, human levels of concern, confusion, and fear apparent. Its dark eyes and tiny beak shifted in that eerie way that belonged patently to GB, until they were the familiar, human face of the aforementioned man.

It – his – head cocked to the side, and he murmured lowly, “There you are, 004. You and 002 had us worried.”

His gaze flickered over the limp form in Albert’s lap and Albert himself, and he frowned grimly. “Come on; both of you need help. There’s a gap in the forces, and it’s tiny, but I can get you through, directing on-high. 006 is set up to make a fire break to shield your escape, and 009, 008, and 005 are creating a distraction in the other direction. If need-be, 001’s waiting in the wings to knock us all out, but only if we _really_ get stuck: they had a psychic that was _powerful_.”

His shifted back, blending into their surroundings remarkably well once more, and flew to a nearby branch. Albert gingerly gathered Jet up into his arms and darted, keeping low, after the bright red crest on his teammate’s currently-feathered head. The world tilted alarmingly every now and again, and one corner of his brain was filled to the brim, now, with warnings and diagnostic reports; all that mattered was the weight in his arms.

When the temperature sensors along his back and calves registered heat, his ears roared, and the corner of his working eye was filled with a burst of flame, Albert knew he was almost there. He staggered, and tumbled to his knees with a low cry. He fought his own limitations, because they weren’t safe yet, but found that he couldn’t move.

A trio of faces – one bald, with feather-patterns still melting away; one blonde, and expressive; and one framed by grizzled grey, and lined with wrinkles – filled his uneven vision, all concerned and frantic. The world tilted again, unstoppable this time, and a pair of slender, surprisingly strong hands caught Jet before the other could fall; Albert recognized pressure against his own back and chest, and his vision was filled with one of the yellow buttons that lined GB’s chest instead of the ground.

They were safe. Their team would take care of them. Albert gratefully passed out.


End file.
